Chapter 1: A Beautiful Instrument
Chapter Text
We’re sitting in the common room. It’s mid autumn, a window is cracked open and the leaf-dust filled breeze is drifting in. Everyone’s laughing, or talking, sitting around in the great big cushy chairs. They’re smoking cigarettes or other things, talking about class or quidditch. We’re sitting in our area of the room, which is the circle of furniture right by the fireplace. No one else ever sits here. James, Sirius, Peter, and sometimes Lily all sit on the couch, a maroon contraption that, regardless of the quantity and diversity of fluids that get on it (beer, spit, puke, possibly cum), manages to stay plush and comfortable. I suppose it’s magic of some sort that keeps the sofa presentable, or maybe the fluids of the youth have embedded themselves into the fabric of the thing, and that’s what makes it so soft. That thought is fucking disgusting.
In any case, there’s no point thinking about the couch because I don’t sit in it; I sit in the armchair adjacent to it. I think my chair used to be a bright red, but now, it looks more brown than anything else. It’s sort of like the color of dried blood. I like to think that it’s been in the common room for at least one hundred years, but try as I might, I haven’t been able to find any date engraving on it. At one point, when I couldn’t sleep, and I was down here searching for some kind of date on a chair leg, Sirius came stumbling down the stairs from the dormitories. He was wearing James's tank top and plaid pajama bottoms (the small shirt paired with the big trousers suited him well). When Sirius saw me on the ground, at 3:00 in the morning, crouched at the bottom of my arm chair and inspecting the wood with the light of my wand, he was confused to say the least. He doesn’t have the same fascination with old objects that I have. To be honest, I’m not sure why I like them so much.
Some part of me feels bad about claiming our corner of the common room, after all, the other kids in Gryffindor deserve to have the fireplace too. But when a crusty first year stumbles along, with their loud and squeaky voices, too scared to sit near us, I’m grateful that I don’t have to interact with them. Small children kind of freak me out, with their questions and spit and mucus. Well, except for babies, I quite like babies.
I’ve got my knees pressed up against my chest, and my chin resting atop my knees as I re-engage into the conversation; to listen to Sirius blabber on about one thing or another. I’ve been zoning out for some time now, Thinking about dried blood, semen and whatnot, so I’ve probably missed multiple crucial plot-points in whatever the fuck he’s on about this time.
“And you know what else? They made me take piano lessons, a fate worse than death, if you ask me.” Sirius says, his legs crossed at the ankles, sprawled over James's lap. His hair hangs around his face in a way that frames it nicely, and his cheeks are a little red either from the warmth of the fire or the cold from the window.
“I actually quite enjoy the piano, it’s got a nice sound,” Peter replies, scribbling some notes into a book he’s reading.
“Yeah mate, I didn’t know you had such strong feelings about the piano,” James adds, untying and re-tying the doc martins Sirius has got on.
“He’s got such strong feelings about everything,” I say, rolling my eyes.
It’s true; it can be a bit annoying sometimes. Admittedly, I have a lot of strong opinions myself, but all of mine are based on logic and reasoning. Sirius, on the other hand, makes up any old opinion about any topic without putting in any time into understanding it at all. He spews his bullshit far and wide just for the sake of talking, and as endearing as it is, it can be a bit obnoxious when it’s clear that he’s talking straight out of his arse. Sirius is the queen of dancing on the line between endearing and obnoxious, a line that was made just for him.
“But Moony, It is my strong belief that a man with no opinions can’t be considered a man at all,” Sirius says, grinning, and then taking a long drag from his cig.
“Pads, I’m sorry but what the fuck are you talking about?” James takes a break from fiddling with his shoelaces when he says this, looking at Sirius in the face.
Sirius laughs, smoke coming out of his nose and mouth in short bursts.
“You wouldn’t get it James, you’re just not on the same psychological level as me."
“And thank god for that,” James says. In response, Sirius shoves him a little with his feet, and they both start to giggle.
“I don’t get how you think piano’s torture. It’s a beautiful instrument”. I hear myself say, before I can think about it for too long. Beautiful instrument, what was I thinking?
“A beautiful instrument?” Sirius is still laughing a little, and I can’t tell if it’s at me. “Well, do tell Moony, what’s so beautiful about it?”
I sigh. If I’m already in this deep I suppose I’ll see it through.
“Well, it’s perfect for learning music theory. Each note is a piece of a sensible repeating pattern, and there’s a visual distinction between the flats and the normal notes. It’s perfect for having melodies and chords played at the same time, and it’s the ideal instrument to do any kind of composing on. So yeah, I would say that it’s pretty fucking great.”
“Well, Moony, I didn’t realize the piano was so near and dear to your heart.”
“Well fuck you too, Sirius.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Sirius chuckles a little, swinging his legs off James and planting them on the ground. “I guess I never thought about it that way. All I remember is old margie, my piano teacher, coming to my house every sunday to teach me my major and minor chords. God was that awful.”
“Yeah, well, you were playing because your parents wanted you too. There’s no way to enjoy an instrument like that.”
Sirius breathes in to say something, but he stalls for a few seconds and the air starts to get thick. Noticing the shift, James swoops in to talk about something else. Sirius stays quiet for a minute, not looking sad, per say, but looking thoughtful. After that he rejoins the conversation like nothing had happened.
Later that night we’re getting ready for bed. Sirius takes off his shirt and trousers to get changed into his pajamas, and I can’t help but to stare through the crack in my bed’s curtains. His back is unreasonably pale, and I can see the faint outlines of his blue veins peaking through his skin. His back glows under the warm light of the dormitory lamps, and I know that I could sit and watch the muscles under his skin work for hours. He pulls a t-shirt over his head, I’m hit with the overwhelming guilt of looking at him.
It’s not that I haven’t tried to stop liking Sirius black, because believe me, I have. Ever since third year, when I didn’t even have words for what I was feeling towards him, I tried to stop liking him. Allas, no matter how many times I called him mate, I couldn’t shake the feeling. Every time I thought I was making headway on the “getting over Sirius” front, he would do something, like ask me to tie his tie, and I would get butterflies all over again. By around mid-fifth year I decided that it was hopeless. I’d just have to suffer forever.
Lily’s the only one who knows about my little crush- I ran and told her when I first realized I liked him in late fourth year. I had already known I was gay, but I hadn’t told anyone about that. I guess I had always sort of known about the gay thing. I can’t pinpoint the moment I realized I liked guys, probably because it was the least of my problems. No self-respecting wizard would date or marry a werewolf anyway, so what did it matter what side of the street I drove on? No, the gay thing was fine, it was the Sirius thing that fucked me up. I remember the moment I realized my feelings.
It was right after this quidditch match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, and Sirius barged into the common room with the rest of the team, his batting club slung over his shoulder. It had been raining, and his red and yellow robes were all covered with mud and a small bit of his blood. The bludger had knocked him square in the face during that match, and watching him wipe the mixture of blood and rainwater off of his nose while on that broomstick did something for me, whether I knew it at the time or not. The first thing he did after he sauntered in the room and basked in his victory was come to me. We locked eyes a few moments after he had clambered through the portrait hole, and he bolted in my direction. When he met his body with mine, he grabbed me, and hugged me so tight my feet left the ground. He spun me around once, yelling: “Moony, did you see me? I was great wasn’t I, that was great, you saw me, right? You saw me?”
I don’t know if it was because of how tight he was hugging me, or if it was because he was hugging me in the first place, but I couldn’t make out any clear words. I sort of said “yeah, Pads, you did great”, but I was wheezing a little so I probably sounded like an underwhelming accordion.
Once he put me down, and I could look at him again, he was smiling like an idiot with his hands grasping both my shoulders.
“God that was-” he gasped, his chest moving dramatically as he talked.
He didn’t finish his sentence, but hugged me again. This time he didn’t pick me up, he just stayed there for a while. I could feel the water from his robes seep into mine, mixed with the sweat he had accumulated from the match. His chin was on my shoulder, and I could hear him painting in my ear like a tired puppy. He smelled like dirt and rain mildew, and his hair was sticking to my cheek in cold wet strands. He hugged me for a few seconds too long, his arms clamped over mine. I didn’t hug him back, I was in shock, and the position he had us in wouldn’t let me. He let go, and left, looking back at me a few times before going to punch James in the arm.
That night I went crying to the girl’s dormitories and told Lily about it. About his hair and the way he picked me, and that he didn’t have to pick me but he did, and about how he could have ignored me but he didn’t, and he just smelled so filthy but it was so good because it was him, and shit, I like him. I fucking like him.
Lily stayed up all night listening to me talk. Lily hugged me when I was covered in sirius water, and told me that my secret was safe with her. Secret. Right. Like I needed another goddamn secret in my life.
So now, because of one nervous breakdown I had at fourteen, I have to be made fun of every day for something I can’t control. Every time Sirius holds my waist when he passes by me I blush, and of course lily sees and has to laugh at me, and of course James sees that and asks “what’s so funny, Evans” and then I blush more, and it’s just a vicious cycle really. But I’m glad I told her. The marauders can know about the wolf thing and Lily can know about the boy thing. I’ve got it all worked out.
My curtains swing open and I’m knocked out of my head. Sirius comes to sit on my bed in boxers and a t-shirt. I have to fight the instinct to look- um, down there. I’ve had years of practice though, so I keep a straight face.
“What’s up, Pads?”
He looks down at his hands. His hair, wet from showering, is draped over his face and hides his eyes. I can see his lips through the strands, though, and because he isn’t looking right at me, I can look at them all I want.
“Yeah, uh- you play the piano.” He says, still not meeting my eyes.
“Astute observation, Sirius. Yes, you know this.”
“I know Moony, but it just processed for the first time.”
He looks up at me, and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “When you told me, I just kind of assumed you hated it, like I did. But you don’t.”
“You’re right mate, I don’t.”
His eye twitched a little when I said mate, but it was probably unrelated.
“Right, well, erm,” Sirius started, picking at his cuticles.
He’s got really nice fingernails. I know that's weird, but it’s true, honestly. They’re like girls’, since his ex-girlfriend, Mary, gives him manicures every week. They’re the same length as mine, but they're clean and shiny, and there’s no dead skin anywhere on them. Sirius says that she uses this special oil, that makes his skin all soft, and even though James makes fun of him for it, all the girls that fawn over him don’t seem to mind. They think it’s nice that he takes care of himself, which I find funny, because he isn’t the one taking care of himself, Mary is.
“Remus, did you hear what I said?” I hear Sirius ask, breaking through my thoughts.
“What? Oh, erm, no, sorry. Just tired. What were you saying?”
“I was wondering if you could, uh, teach me piano; the way you were taught. Maybe I would like it more.”
“Oh, erm,” I started to say, looking at him. His eyes are a sort of storm cloud grey in this lighting, but when he’s out in the sunlight they look kind of silver. His eyelashes aren’t particularly thick, but they’re long, and they curl just at the ends. I’m usually a very rational thinker, but when he’s looking at me with those eyes, it’s kind of hard to be.
“Yeah, sure padfoot. Whenever you want.”
“Really?” He smiles, looking up at me. “Erm, yeah, nice. We’ll do that. Night, Remus.”
“Goodnight, Sirius.”
He leaves my bed smiling, and goes over to James’s bed to tell him something, and I hear James mumble a silencing charm.
What the fuck have I just gotten myself into?
Chapter 2: The First Lesson
Summary:
Hey! I'm so sorry for the late update, but I had a lot going on. When I first started writing this fic I thought it was going to be in only Remus's POV, but I decided to switch to Sirius's for this chapter. I hope you like it!
Notes:
This chapter includes a very minor description of something that could be considered child abuse. It's a quick mention of mild physical discipline from Sirius's old piano teacher, nothing graphic or intense.
Chapter Text
“James! James!” I whisper, once I reach the outside of his bed.
“Well? What happened?” James responds, before casting a silencing charm and waving me inside.
I climb in, still giddy from my conversation with Remus.
“He said yes!”
James smiles, sitting up and crossing his legs. He’s rocking back and forth slightly; just enough for me to notice. James does that when he gets excited.
“Well done mate,” James says, lightly punching my shoulder, “I knew you had it in you.”
My face hurts from smiling. I’ve basically got scheduled dates with Moony. Well, I suppose they’re not really scheduled because we didn’t set a specific time, and they’re not really dates either; there’s nothing inherently romantic about a piano lesson, and I didn’t imply that there was anything romantic in nature about the piano lessons, and, oh god. Did I imply anything romantic? Surely I didn’t. Did I? Fuck.
“So…” James starts, drum rolling on his knees, “I want a play by play. Give me the details.”
I feel myself blush, and I look down at the space between us. A ripple of moonlight shines through the crack in the curtains; it slithers down James’s bed, hugging the folds of his blanket before disappearing over the edge of the matress. I run my fingers through my hair, pushing it out of my face.
“There’s not much to say,” I tell him, unhelpfully. Forming words is a little uncomfortable when my cheeks are pulling at my lips. “I mean, I told him how I never liked the piano, but if he taught it to me I might like it.”
“He’s a whole hell of a lot hotter than Margie,” James replies, wiggling his eyebrows at me.
I raise one eyebrow at him, which prompts him to take his pillow and launch it at my face. James can’t raise a single eyebrow (like I can), which has bothered him and entertained me since first year. Since then, he has tried, and failed, to teach himself how to do it. For years he would practice during meals, twitching and convulsing and asking me, “Did I do it? How bout now? Am I doing it?” He was never doing it.
“You’ve never met Margie” I say, chucking the pillow back at him.
Laughing, he catches it, and places it in his lap.
“Yeah, but your descriptions don’t leave much to the imagination. What with the saggy skin, bloodshot eyes and all.”
It’s true, she wasn’t exactly eye-candy. She reminded me of a bloodhound, with the way her skin draped over her body like a fleshy-blanket. Everything about her was raw, cold, and irritated. Her nails were long and sharp, and her cuticles looked like they were barely hanging on to her nailbeds. She would spit when she talked, sprinkling both me and the piano with drops of her thin saliva.
A moment passes, and I process another part of what James said.
“Also, don’t call Remus hot!”
“You can’t blame me for having eyes, Pads.”
I shove him in the shoulder, and he sits there, laughing. His cheeks push up against his eyes, making him squint; his curls bounce slightly with each exhale. I’m so glad I have him.
The first official piano lesson is on Saturday afternoon. Moony had refused to do it any sooner, because he said he had “homework to do”. After lunch, he leads me through the charms corridor, and through a small door marked “storage”. Inside, there are stacks of charms textbooks, unopened quill boxes, and a small piano pushed up against the stone brick wall. A single torch is mounted above the piano, bathing the room in a warm haze.
“I didn’t know pianos came that small.” I say, moving towards it and running my finger across the wood.
I could probably touch the music stand with one hand and the back of the piano with the other simultaneously. The keys were strange as well, they were oldly reflective and had a sort of new-ness about them.
“I mean, not really. It’s just a baby grand. It’s what I played on growing up.”
“Oh- um, cool.” I feel heat run up my neck and burn my ears. I stop touching the piano, and shove my hands in my pockets. I should not have said that.
I hear Remus sigh behind me, before picking up a folding chair leaning against the wall and opening it next to the bench.
“So, do you want to sit down?” Remus says, gesturing to the black piano bench.
The bench is much simpler than the one I’m used to. The one in the Black house had these ornate wooden dragon’s legs, complete with carved scales and claws. The plush part of the bench had a picture of a dragon woven into it, curled up and asleep. The most memorable thing about it was the itch. Coarse fibers stuck up from the cushion in bunches, sharp and thin enough to poke through my dress pants. I remember being scolded for wiggling in my seat, and forced to sit still as the hairs sunk deeper and deeper into my skin. This seat is much less gaudy; It’s just black. Plain, shiny, black.
I sit down.
No itch.
“So, how much about piano do you know?”
“Well, I stopped lessons after my first year. I didn’t practice at all at school, and I sort of refused to go,” I wrack my brain for something I held onto, so Remus doesn’t think I’m completely helpless. I can feel his judgment in waves. “I might remember “marche des elves”, it’s some wizard song”.
“Ok, play it.”
“Play it?”
“Yeah. Just so I can see what I’m dealing with.”
“Um… Ok.” I try to remember what I’m supposed to do. I pull my shoulders back and plant my feet firmly on the ground. I move one foot over the right-most pedal; it seems so much smaller, now. I let my hands relax, so they can form their “natural curve”, as Margie put it. I place them on the keys. It’s a tighter fit than I recall, and the sweat on my hands makes my fingers slide a little.
“Alright, get on with it.”
I start to play, but it doesn’t feel the same. All of the keys are closer together, so I’m over-estimating how far I have to stretch my hands. I’m trying to count the beats in my head, but the left hand is on a different tempo from the right, and if I focus too much on the right hand, the left messes up, and if I focus too much on the left hand, the right messes up, and I don’t know what my foot is doing; it’s flailing around like a fish out of water, flopping down without reason or predictability. I can hear my breath quickening, so I start playing faster, so I mess up more, and my hands are sliding all over the keys, and I’m waiting, just waiting, for Remus to yell. Or laugh, or leave, or sigh, or for him to do something, anything, at all.
I used to think that the constant quips from Marge were the worst it could get, but I was wrong. Remus is just sitting there, hearing my mistakes, and letting them pile up one after another. It’s like adding one sheet of paper at a time to a stack so tall, so wobbly, so precarious that you know it’s going to fall. You know it’s going to make this great big mess but you can’t stop adding paper after paper after paper–
“Ok, stop.”
I retract my hands as quickly as I can, and push them in my lap. My throat feels like it’s closing in on itself, and I have to fight to force any air through.
The space between us sits like molasses, thick, sticky and uncomfortable. I stare at my lap.
“Wow- that was… impressive,” Remus says, calmly.
I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.
“You’re joking, right?” I ask, laughing through my words.
I stare down at my hands. I remember how Marge would smack my knuckles with her wand when I messed up. The sound of it, the sting. There’s a part of me that expects Remus to do the same, even though I know there’s no reason for him to.
“What? No. I mean you haven’t played in five years?”
I look up at Remus, and he doesn’t seem angry. He’s leaning closer to me, his eyes glistening in the torchlight. He just looks so– warm.
“er,” I stutter for a moment, pulling my eyes off of him and back down to my hands. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“That’s bloody amazing. I can’t believe you remembered all that.”
To be honest, I can’t believe it either. I wasn’t even thinking about the notes I was playing, just whether it sounded right or not. I had played that song so many times with Marge for this party my parents were hosting. Hours spent playing that one song, over, and over, and over, to prove to high society just how cultured the Black heir was. I guess it stuck.
I don’t know how to respond to Remus, though, so I don’t. A few moments pass before he starts to speak again,
“Well, you’re a bit out of practice, but you know how to play. Do you want to learn something else or re-learn that?” Remus reaches for a binder sitting atop the piano, and starts rifling through the pages, “I can’t say I know the song, but I’m sure I could find the music somewhere-”
“Something else,” I hear myself say before I can think about it. This can’t be like before, not in any way.
“Ok. I’ll find something,” Remus says, smiling.
Heat rises in my chest and creeps up to my cheeks, and I can’t help smiling back at him.
Chapter 3: Ghosts
Summary:
Remus talks to Lily about some things that have been on his mind about Sirius, beyond his romantic feelings. Lily helps bring Remus down to earth, and Remus gets to process some of the things he's been feeling. This chapter is from Remus's POV.
Notes:
This chapter has a Little Women spoiler in it, so be careful of that. It also mentions physical abuse from parents, describes scars left by parents in some detail, so please be aware of that going in. There's also a mention of bullying and the death of a parent, so please take care of yourself and don't read this if you think you'll have a hard time.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
I wake up to the sound of Sirius’s bickering from the bed left of mine.
“James it’s the asscrack of dawn, leave me alone.”
It is not, in fact, the asscrack of dawn. Squinting as I open my eyes, I sit up and rub the dried crust from my tear ducts. Beams of sunlight catch the dust floating in the air as it pokes through the gaps in my curtains.
“Pads, it’s 8:00. The sun came up ages ago, I let you sleep in today!”
There’s a ruffling noise, and a woosh of blankets being pulled off of someone. Sirius whines, and I feel myself smile a little bit as I collapse onto my back. There’s a soft thud, and Sirius’s retort is muffled by the pillow over his face.
“I don’t give a pixie’s tiny cock. Leave. me. alone.”
“Do pixies even have cocks?” I hear Peter squeak from the bed to my right.
“They don’t,” I mumble, pulling my covers up over my ears, “They have cloacas, like birds.”
I can almost hear the gears turning in Peter’s head before he asks,
“What’s a cloaca?”
“Will you both shut up?” Sirius groans, his voice still a bit scratchy from sleep, “I’m trying to sleep.”
“You are not going back to sleep,” James sighs, exasperated, “and for the love of Merlin put on some clothes!”
There’s a quiet “smack”, and I peek through my curtains to see Sirius, shirtless and curled up in a ball, with his quidditch uniform thrown on his face. A few wisps of his black hair curl out from under the red and yellow fabric, and unfortunately, I want to touch them.
“I don’t wanna.” Sirius protests through his shirt, pulling his thighs closer to his bare chest.
“Just go, Sirius. I wanna go back to sleep.” I say, turning over to keep from staring at the way the morning light reflects across his shoulders, and the little bit of collar bone visible from behind his knees.
“Sleep. I was asleep once-” Sirius starts, with his Black-family dramatic flare.
“Go!” Peter yells, interrupting Sirius mid-sentence.
There’s some grumbling, but eventually I hear the squeaking of Sirius’s bed and the patter of his feet across the floor, the ruffling of Sirius's clothes as he changes, and the quiet “thud” of James closing the dormitory door behind them.
I sigh, and stare at the top of my bed for a while, tracing the wood grain with my eyes. Sirius and James do this every weekend; James wants to practice, Sirius says no, and they go back and forth for a few minutes. Some mornings their charade is quiet enough that I can sleep through it, or wake up only partially; so I can close my eyes and fall back asleep afterwards. Today isn’t one of those mornings, and I find myself getting out of bed and throwing on some jeans and a sweater before stumbling down the stairs. Once I’m really awake, there’s no use trying to go back to sleep again.
The common room is relatively empty, with a few first years playing wizard’s chess in one corner, and Lily curled up on the couch in the other. The fire’s burning low, and her nose is buried deep into a copy of Little Women. Wizards are good at their magical non-fiction, but they can’t hold a candle to the muggle story-books both Lily and I grew up on; maybe their world is magical enough that they don’t need to spend too much energy thinking of new ones.
I sit down in my chair, and see that Lily’s eyes are rimmed red; she sniffles, and wipes her nose with the back of her wrist.
Lily cries easily. The first time I saw her cry was In first year, when she was sorted into Gryffindor, even though she really had no idea what the significance of it was. When Mary asked her what was wrong, Lily responded with “nothing, it’s just so crazy, you know?”. I didn’t pay much mind to the whole thing at the time, mainly because I could see Sirius (the star) right through the ceiling.
Since then, I’ve learned that Lily’s crying had nothing to do with her strength or will. Because my mom’s a muggle, I was sent to muggle school before hogwarts. If I hurt myself, or someone else hurt me, I was scolded for crying. Once, a teacher told me that “little girls don’t like little boys who cry all the time.” Even though what girls like in lads doesn’t have much of an impact on my life currently, at the time, I agreed with them. For a while, I thought Lily’s crying was a sign of her weakness, but over time, I’ve learned that it’s merely a sign of her empathy. She stands up for everyone and anyone who needs it, and even if she’s crying while she does, the perpetrator gets the message anyway. But today, at 8:15 in the morning, she’s not crying about a real live person, but rather, probably some fake girl from a little over 100 years ago.
“What happened?” I ask, stretching my arms up and making myself comfortable.
“Beth died,” she says, sniffling as she turns the page.
Her hair is tied back in a bun that’s held up by her wand, a trick both she and Sirius use on occasion.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just skip over that part, you’ve had to have read that book at least five times by now.”
“Because if I don’t read it, I won’t get the full experience,” she continues, wiping a tear off her cheek, “and the full experience is why I love the book in the first place.”
“Ok Lily,” I say, standing up, and crossing over to the couch, “How about you take a break from this experience for now so we can watch James and Sirius make a fool of themselves on the pitch for a while.”
I gently put my hand over the page she’s reading so she’ll look up at me; she sighs and puts her bookmark in the nook the spine makes.
“I suppose that wouldn’t be so bad.”
By the time we’re nearing the pitch, she’s back to her normal self, chattering excitedly about a project she finished for astronomy (her and James may be the only two people I know that actually enjoy that class), as I fiddle with the loose yarn coming out of my sweater. I can see why James likes her so much, if I liked women, I would probably fancy her too. She’s got a way of talking about things she’s passionate about that makes you passionate about them too, at least for the time she’s speaking. Her smile is infectious, and she really is beautiful, no matter how much she thinks her weight makes her unappealing. For a few years James thought that I fancied Lily, but he stopped bothering me about that fifth year for whatever reason.
Once we get to the pitch, we climb up the stairs to sit on a middle row of bleachers. It’s drizzling, but the sun is shining a little bit through a crack in the clouds; James is on the ground releasing bludgers for Sirius to practice hitting. They haven’t noticed us, I can hear their muffled yells faintly over the wind.
“I’m sending up another!” James yells up at Pads, waving his arms frantically to gain his attention.
“What?!” Sirius Yells back, spinning around in circles on his broom, “I can’t hear you, the wind’s pretty loud up here!”
So maybe stop moving, I think, breathing on my hands to keep warm.
“What?!” James yells back, putting his arms on his waist.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Lily mutters under her breath, as she pulls her wand out of her hair and presses it against her throat, murmuring an incantation.
“Boys, you have wands,” she says, her voice booming across the pitch. I cover my ears at the noise, but Lily doesn’t even flinch. I can see James’s grin from here, and he yells,
“Hiya Lily, come to see me play?”
Lily’s cheeks turn a little pink, but it could just be because of the cold. “Oh come off it James, Remus took me,” Lily’s voice echos.
I stifle a laugh, and see James shrink a little shorter.
“Idiots,” Lily tuts, slipping her wand into her pocket, letting her carrot-red hair sway a little past her collar bone.
“Can’t argue with you there,” I reply, watching a bludger nearly hit Sirius in the back of the head. The two boys didn’t take Lily’s advice on the whole wand thing, but I’m not complaining; I don’t want to hear whatever it is they’re trying to say to each other reverberate against the stands for an hour.
“So,” Lily starts, turning to face me, “what did you bring me here to talk about?”
I turn to her and open my mouth, planning on saying something like “nothing”, but she gives me a look. The look mothers give their kids when they know something, and I can’t lie to her.
“It’s Sirius,” I say, turning back to the pitch to watch him swirling around on his broom. I hate how stupid cute he looks while he does that. “He– he wants me to teach him how to play the piano.”
“Oh, what’s bad about that?” Lily asks, kindly, “I thought you loved the piano, didn’t your mum teach you?”
She knows about that? I don’t remember saying anything about it, but I must have. Both Lily and Sirius remember the smallest details about me, the sort of things I could never remember about them. In second year, when I told Lily that I liked the movie “The Wizard of Oz,” she got me the book for my birthday. The mere fact that she had remembered my birthday, let alone that I liked “The Wizard of Oz” amazed me, and made me feel cared for. In first year, when I told Sirius that chocolate frogs were my favorite wizarding candy thus far (after we had gorged on sweats during the train ride to Hogwarts), he got me 20 of them for Christmas. It was a strange feeling, getting presents from anyone besides my mum; I had never had friends like that before. Their generosity always came with a twinge of guilt, knowing I could never remember those little details like they could.
“Yeah,” I said slowly, coming back to reality, “She did. But Sirius isn’t like that.”
“Oh?”
“He, well, um,” I pause, fiddling with the loose yarn again, “he was taught before, by his old piano teacher– anyway you were there when he was talking about her. He jokes about stuff like that, but–”
I stop, and realize I might be saying too much. I turn to face Lily again, she’s sitting criss-cross on the bleacher and looking right at me, listening. I look around to make sure no one else is within earshot; the whole stadium’s deserted except for us four; no one’s crazy enough to start practicing this early on a sunday besides James.
“Can what I’m about to say stay between us?” I ask, looking at Lily, then the ground, then back at Lily again.
She reaches out and rests her hand on my wrist, which is sitting next to me on the bleacher.
“Of course, Remus, of course.” She’s smiling softly, and I take a breath to continue.
“I just– he kept flinching, while he was playing. Every time he messed up he would jerk, and by the end of it the keys were shiney with his sweat. I felt so bad, Lils, I couldn’t do anything.”
I open my mouth to say more, but nothing comes out. There’s this helplessness that I feel sometimes with Sirius, like there are ghosts living inside him that I can’t get rid of. Like when we were kids, and he showed me the scars on his arm for the first time, after he’d seen mine. My scars were big, and brash, and full of passion, but his weren’t. They were thin, and perfectly aligned. They were purposeful, and put there with the sole purpose of inflicting pain. I felt the ghosts then too, floating around us, suffocating us, and I was hit with the terrible realization that the weight of the ghosts is something Sirius always has to feel, and that every carefree second I was alive he was carrying this weight with him. The guilt pushed down on me like the pounds of ocean on top of a submarine, and I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t know what to do. It makes me angry sometimes, the guilt he puts on me. I know it shouldn’t, but it does, and I feel like hitting him, like it’s his fault I feel like this, and why does he have to put it on me? Why can’t he just keep it to himself like everyone else, and not make it my problem? But then I look at James, who’s heard so much more of it than I have, and I realize that I’m the problem. Because he carries the ghosts for him so easily, but when I even look at them, I can’t sit in the discomfort long enough to help.
I make eye contact with Lily, willing her to understand; because I can’t say this outloud, because If I say it, then it’s real, and I’m really the awful person I know myself to be. She smiles sadly, and squeezes my hand.
“I know love, I know.”
And she gives me that look, that all-knowing, motherly look, and I know she understands, not just what I’m feeling, but more.
We turn to face the pitch together, and I see Sirius approaching us quickly, and I have to fight the urge to duck down when he gets close.
He stops abruptly, and flashes me that Sirius Black grin. My face gets hot, but I’m hoping he’ll think my pink cheeks are because of the wind.
“We’re gonna do some drills for another 10 minutes or so, then we can all get some breakfast, yeah?”
“Sounds good Pads,” I say, turning to Lily to get her response.
“Sure, Sirius, that sounds nice.”
“I’ll have to pass that on,” he gives Lily a wink, she laughs, and he flies off to tell James the big news.
What’s bothering me most about this whole thing is that piano’s what Sirius has baggage for. Piano’s what kept me afloat through my childhood; through transformations, through getting picked on because of my scars, and through my dad’s death. On good days, when the windows were open and the breeze made the curtains dance, Mum would teach me things.
She taught me the difference between major and minor chords first. She played C Major and said, “you see how this one sounds happy? That’s called a major chord. It’s when you play a bunch of notes together to make a happy sound.” She would put my hand over hers when she played, my fingers barely long enough to play all three keys. I remember how the air smelled on those days, like old wood and marmalade Mum had made earlier. “But, if you just move the middle finger down a quarter step,” she played C minor, and I moved my middle finger to match hers, “It makes a sort of scary sound. That’s called a minor chord.” Then, she would take her hand away, and place my hand where hers was. “Here,” she would say, “You try.”
On bad days, like before a full moon when I was frustrated, or after a full moon when the other kids were laughing at my fresh scars, she wouldn’t try to teach me anything. She would just say, “play what you feel, Remus.” At first, how I felt was just slamming keys, like after my dad passed when I was five, and I was lost and confused. Years passed, and my frustrations became coherent; I learned how to channel my grievances into something creative. The grid layed out for me by the piano’s keyboard makes so much sense, I can shut my brain off and let my hands find the keys that sound right. When it gets to be too much, I slip away and into Flitwick’s storage room– to let my mind go quiet and let my hands take over.
Ten minutes go by, and we all go to eat. James and Sirius chat excitedly about the plays they’ll use for their next game, and Lily and I exchange knowing looks; they’re not going to let up all breakfast.
Notes:
I hope you enjoyed! I really appreciate Kudos if you like this fan fiction, and I really appreciate you reading this even though it isn't finished, I know it's hard to read uncompleted fics.
Chapter 4: Don’t Be Afraid of the Room
Summary:
Sirius receives more lessons from Remus, and reflects on them. After Sirius listens to Remus play, he's reminded of his Remus-related fears.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
A few weeks have passed since my first lesson, and I’m starting to enjoy the piano a lot more than I expected.
At first, it was just a way to get closer to Moony; I’ve been coming up with ways to do that since first year. I doubt it was a crush, back then; it was more of a fascination. I had never met someone like him; a halfblood raised as a muggle, working class, and with an accent different from mine. He slouched, didn’t know how to play wizard’s chess, wasn’t interested in the name “Black”, and was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. I loved spending time with James; he understood me more than anyone else, and I understood him. Moony, on the other hand, was a mystery to me, which made him all the more interesting.
I remembered every detail about him, trying to find a way into his head. I cherished every new discovery, and filed them away in my brain like little treasures to admire and use later. When Remus told me he learned to play the piano, I thought it was a point of similarity between us. Sure, his parents hadn’t hired a teacher like mine had, but the experience was the same. But sitting in the common room and hearing the way Remus talked about it with such fondness, I didn’t know how to feel. I was a little disappointed that we didn’t have the same view on the subject, until I saw the opportunity that had fallen in front of me.
Sometimes, while we play, Remus touches my hands.
“You’re too stiff,” He’d said, gripping the edge of the bench as he sat down next to me. He’d tried to instruct from afar—said that my hands should be curved, like they would be while resting at my sides. Still, I couldn’t release them; couldn’t stop them from perpetually bracing for something. The weight of him sank the cushion, and his warmth formed this layer of energy between us.
“Here,” he said, leaning over—the folds of his robes hung from his torso and brushed against my forearms. He lifted each of my fingers before placing them down again, with a softness and precision only his knobby hands seemed capable of. Each time, I felt my knuckles relax in the way my knees get wobbly when Remus and I hold eye contact for too long, and each time, I felt my heart skip a beat, leading me to wonder if any of my blood was circulating at all.
“There,” Remus said, finally releasing my right pinky. He leaned back and turned to me.
And suddenly we were an inch apart, nose to nose, and my heart pounded in my ears. I stopped breathing mid exhale, and my brain became fuzzy, as if dusted with dandelion seeds. His breath was hot and smelled of his bright blue muggle mouthwash, his eyelashes were long and fluttering, shifting the most minuscule of breezes. Every hitch, hiss, and hush of his breath was close enough to hear, his freckles were close enough to count, his mouth was close enough to lean into, push onto, make an imprint on me.
“Hi,” I breathed. The light hit his cupid’s bow and quivered as his lips barely bobbed with the waxing and waning of the air in his chest.
“So, erm,” Remus turned his head, and suddenly his mouth was gone.
He gripped the shiny edge of our bench again, pushed himself up and away, shooting towards and landing back in his chair. The layer between us dissipated, and soon the indent where he sat would be cold again. He kept his eyes on the sheet in front of me.
“Try playing now.”
I thought the piano would be annoying; an excuse, a necessary evil to use for one-on-one time with Remus. The more lessons I take, though, the more it grows on me. Our second lesson, Remus showed me the inside of the piano.
“Have you ever seen the hammers?” Remus asked, standing from his chair. I hadn’t, I hadn’t ever wondered how the sound was made—I was more worried about how long I’d be sitting on the itchy bench.
Remus told me to stand up, so I did, and he lifted the lid. I peered over the side, and there laid hundreds of tiny strings, lined up in decreasing thickness from left to right. They were covered in dust; part of me wanted to touch them, but part of me felt like I’d be disturbing something. It was like lifting a rock by a stream—you see the salamander scurvy by, the bugs pulse and scatter, and you want to grab it, to make an impact, but part of you feels intrusive for looking at a world not meant for you.
“Go on, hit a key,” Remus insisted, leaning against the wall.
I hit middle C, and a hammer shot out from the side. The string quivered, and the note rang out.
“I never realized there were strings in there…”
“What did you think was happening?”
“I don’t know…” for a moment we sat in the piano-less silence, “I guess I never considered it.”
The torch flickered, and the warm light shifted across Remus’s face. Glints of orange and red speckled his eyes, making their amber hue turn more caramel, like the irises themselves were generating heat. Remus had shown me something once, a muggle contraption called a prism. It’s a clear triangular rod that turns white light into a rainbow. I told him there was probably a spell for that, and he didn’t need to carry around a hunk of plastic. He explained that all white light has a rainbow in it, and the prism was simply the thing breaking it up and revealing all the individual parts. Remus is sort of like a prism; we see the same thing, but he manages to find meaning in it where I can’t. Maybe it’s because he was raised as a muggle. Say what you want about their inventions, but muggles have to go through the work of figuring things out. They can’t trust that “magic” will do all the understanding for them.
“I like learning about how things work,” Remus muttered, gazing at the piano. He fiddled with the edge of his sleeve, “That’s one thing I don’t like about magic. I know that most things have a way that they work, or a way they exist, and If I try hard enough, I can understand it. Magic skips steps—or maybe it doesn’t, I just don’t get it yet.”
Remus slumped down in his chair. His eyes were still locked on the piano, like it was his anchor. Sometimes I wish I had an anchor.
“People can be complicated. You can’t take them apart and see everything that makes them who they are. Things are simpler.”
“You don’t need to take people apart to understand them,” I hear myself say.
But is that true? Do you need to see all parts of a person to really get them? I’ve certainly tried with Remus. And now that I think about it, that might make me a bad person. Is it wrong to collect parts of someone like chocolate frog cards? I’ve tried and failed to put Remus together. I’m good at knowing when people are upset, and why; I push people to annoyance, or to a fight, maybe because it’s the only way I know how to get their attention. Sometimes I feel like a little kid, poking at people to play with me. I know I shouldn’t, but I don’t have many other ways to interact.
Remus rolled his eyes to me, the brown of his irises shifted to gold, then back to brown again. His freckles turned almost orange in the light, his curls folded like ocean waves, or chocolate shavings. His lips parted slightly, like he was softly saying “oh.” I wanted to swallow the silent word, I wanted to muffle it, or transfer it to me. I wanted the energy of his prism to stop scattering about the room, but send a beam towards me, into me, and fill some dark part of my insides that have never been noticed, or seen light. Sometimes I feel like a pit that needs constant light—James digs deep, he shines on more than anyone else; still, I always want someone to find more, dig more, see parts of me that I don’t know about, and extract from my insides the thing that weighs me down.
“yeah…I suppose I don’t know how else to know people,” he looked at the floor, and his eyes went darker.
“You could just listen?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re good at that.”
His head jerked up, and he stared. His eyes narrowed a little, like he was trying to read a far-off sign. “What?” he asked.
“You’re good at listening—you always listen to me.”
Remus chuckled, a bit, turning his face back to the floor. “I don’t know about that. Let’s just play, yeah?”
—
Now, a few weeks later, I’m walking to the charms closet alone. This isn’t out of the ordinary; sometimes I’m at quidditch practice, or Remus is studying, and we meet up at the lesson. This time, though, the closer I get to our room, the more I can hear someone playing. The music is familiar, enchanting, like a rolling thunder storm pouring over diamonds. I feel pulled to the door as if attached to a string, I find myself pressed against the wood.
Remus’s voice barely peaks through the noise–am I hearing things? The closer I listen, the more it becomes clear. It bobs up and down like a buoy in a storm—a neon pearl of smooth regularity in the synchronized yet chaotic storm.
Cologne she’ll wear
His voice rasps a little, he’s not trying to sound professional, or “good.” Still, the notes spill from him like they’d been living inside of him, and he frees the words like syrup poured in a constant, thick stream.
Silver and Americard
I want nothing more than to open the door and become surrounded by the sound, but he’d likely stop. It’s as if his voice comes out in smooth curls of smoke, wisping and twirling and filling the room like incense. I imagine his fingers are doing the same, not hot, but burning all the same, and packing more and more magic into the closet. The smoke seeps from the crack between the door and the floor; it’s curling up to my ears, spindling around me. If I open the door, all the smoke would escape, and molasses would take its place. Unfortunately, in reality, I probably wouldn’t be able to breathe if I was in the room with Remus right now.
She’ll drive a beetle car
And beat you down at cool Canasta
The music changes, and it’s as though I’m on the edge of something. A cliff? A bed? The top of the stairs?
And when the clothes are strewn
Don’t be afraid of the room
I inch closer to the edge of the cliff, of the stairs, of some big decision.
Touch the fullness of her breast
Feel the love of her caress.
I bend my knees.
She will be your living end
I jump, and I’m falling, and I can’t take it anymore, so I yank open the door.
Remus stops. The smoke clears. He retracts his hands from the keys like they were spring loaded. He jumps off the bench and folds his arms across his chest.
“Oh, erm, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you coming.”
“That was really good.”
Good? Really? Out of all the words I could have chosen, I managed to find the least interesting adjective.
“Oh shit, I didn’t silence the room did I?”
“Erm, no.”
I know I wasn’t meant to hear that, but the silencing charm’s another blow. Not only was I not expected to hear it, but it was intentionally hidden from me. I feel sort of betrayed—there’s always more to Remus, and it’s hard enough to figure him out as is. I don’t need him trying to conceal himself. Does he not trust me enough, or like me enough? Am I like everyone else, not in on his silenced life, just another face in the crowd? I’ve seen him transform fuck’s sake, but I’m not special enough to hear the bloody piano? I thought we were over The Prank by now. Why am I still outside?
Remus looks at the floor, and I feel bad for thinking that. I suppose I’m not entitled to what’s inside of him, though I itch to see it.
“I just… had a rough day is all,” Remus admits, carefully lowering himself into the folding chair, “s’probably why I forgot.”
And I don’t say anything. I sit on the bench, and we start our lesson. I want to ask him: to know why his day was bad, and to be the person that makes it better. But there’s this distance—the acknowledgement that he’s keeping me at arm’s length. It used to be intentional, his pushing me away, after The Prank. Logically, I doubt he still actively avoids me, but a phantom push remains: the fear that any time Remus creates space between us, he’s completely slipping from my life. So now, sitting here, there’s a voice in my head warning that if I say something, or if I push further, he’ll leave. He’ll drop the rope connecting us, and I’d watch the light of his boey disappear behind a crashing wave as he’s lost to the sea.
Notes:
Hello! I'm sorry I haven't posted in a while, I got caught up in life. I hope I'm a better writer now than I was OVER A YEAR ago since I last posted. If not, well fuck. Also, if you haven't, please listen to the song "Lady Grinning Soul" by David Bowie. Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter!
Chapter 5: A Conversation that Feels Real
Summary:
Amidst the Chaos of preparing for the Halloween Party, Remus finds himself not only becoming annoyed with his feelings towards Sirius, but also having yet another Sirius-related conversation with Lily.
Notes:
We're officially over 10,000 Words! This fic discusses alcohol, but besides that I can't think of any other warnings to add. Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
James approaches Halloween as one would approach a contact sport. The seventh years, for lack of a better term, can’t be arsed to throw the Grifindor party. They’ve managed to assure James that making him throw the party is their way of testing his abilities, and not their way of escaping responsibility. James, predictably, didn’t take much convincing, and is now barking orders like a general of the Special Boat Service.
He’s lined us up against the wall of our dormitory, giving us some sort of pep talk (or warning, depending on your persuasion).
“Alright lads,” James starts, holding his hands behind his back, pacing back and forth in front of us.
It’s seven in the morning, and a drizzle pecks at the windows. I would have liked to sleep in on a Sunday, but our drill sergeant had other ideas. Peter, who’s inclined to eat up James’s propaganda, was asleep by 9:00 last night to prepare himself. Sirius is just happy that James is too anal about Halloween to bother dragging him down to the pitch at 6:30.
“Today we have been entrusted with one of, if not the most important party of the year. We will not be an embarrassment,” James halts, whipping his head to face us, “We will not let them down.”
“Of course,” Peter chirps, his eyes locked onto James’s, borderline saluting him.
A smile almost forms on Sirius’s lips, his eyes gleaming in the way they do when he’s egging someone on.
“I’m right here with you mate. We will make our forerunners proud,” Sirius straightens his spine, pushing out his chest and pressing his hands to his sides.
I’d roll my eyes if I didn’t fear the consequences. I roll them mentally.
James nods and resumes his militant strut.
“Now, we’d be lying to ourselves if we pretended this wasn’t a major organizational feat, so I’ve recruited our best candidate for the job.”
“Remus?” Peter asks, turning to me, his big blue eyes now almost grey in the dreary morning light.
“No, Peter.” James quips, his eyes locked on me as he moves, “of course, he was my first instinct, but after he laughed at me when I asked him, I was forced to consult an alternative.”
Peter pouts, and Sirius scoffs before collecting himself.
“Shame, Remus,” Sirius scolds, “shame.”
Jesus Christ.
I had, in fact, laughed at James when he asked, but I’d assumed I’d be carrying the brunt of the practical issues myself anyway. I often make an effort to protest involvement in these things, but I know deep down that after enough begging, or after witnessing their repeated failure enough that I’m brought to the brink of insanity, I accept my usual responsibilities. My refusal is usually performative, a statement to say that I don’t live for their antics, and that sometimes there are in fact other things I’d rather do. Honestly, though, I’d feel left out if they didn’t ask me, and more often than I’d care to admit, there is nothing I’d rather do. However, I’d prefer they not be privy to that pathetic reality.
This time, however, James took my response to heart immediately. At first I was offended, though I suppose this is the outcome I requested, but after his alternative option emerged, I understood his eagerness to move on.
“Lily will be in charge of all things organizational, so, what she says goes. Got it?”
“Got it,” Peter nods.
“Sir, yes sir.”
“Remus?” James asks. All eyes turn to me.
“I’d be honored.”
“Great!” James claps his hands together and practically skips towards the door. He’s not always the best at picking up on sarcasm. I don’t correct him. I turn to my fellow soldiers, or whatever you call maritime military pawns. Sailors? I should know this.
“I don’t understand why we have to wake up at 6:30. He’s been preparing for this for two weeks, there’s not all that much more to do.”
“Where’s your holiday spirit?” Sirius says, striding towards me. Too close. Has he always stood this close?
“Erm…” Sirius is five inches shorter than I. It should be easy to keep my eyes from his lips, and normally, I do a pretty good job of it. However, last night I stayed up late doing my homework in preparation for today, and it's really far too early, so I can’t be blamed for letting my eyes rest there. I also can’t be blamed for focussing a bit too hard on the way his hot breath barely reaches me, smelling faintly of mint toothpaste.
“What, cat got your tongue?”
Sirius smirks, and I swear it’s like he knows what he’s doing to me.
I blink and shake my head.
“No, sorry, just tired. I guess I lost all my spirit when I was shaken awake.”
“Right.”
Sirius pushes past me, and Peter skitters behind him. I stew in my stupidity for a few moments before following suit.
—
“I’m gonna kill him,” I mutter, piling bacon on my plate. The moon’s a waxing gibbus at the moment, and I’m getting hungrier each day. Lily’s sitting next to me, waiting to discuss our plans for the night ever looming, chuckling as she butters her toast.
“No you won’t.”
“I will, I swear I will.”
“You always swear.”
I sigh, picking up the meat with my hand and tearing off a bite.
“But this time I mean it.” I lean closer to her, lowering my voice to a whisper. “I mean it’s flirting, that’s what it is. Why on earth would he flirt with me?”
“I don’t know Remus,” Lily's smiling now, taking a bite of her bread.
“I mean, I know he doesn’t think he’s flirting, he thinks he’s messing with me. Well, it’s working.”
“I can see that.”
I elbow her in the ribs, and though I meant it playfully, a small yelp escapes her lips.
“That hurt.”
“Fuck—I’m sorry.”
Lily starts to laugh.
“It’s fine Remus, I’ll get you back somehow.”
“I’m sure you wi–”
“Alright lads,” James barks, and Lily and I skooch apart, “It’s time to debrief. We will now all listen to what Evans has to say.” Lily rolls her eyes as red begins to spread from her cheeks.
“Alright,” she begins, reaching under the table and producing four papers from her bag. “Here are your assignments. All tasks must be completed by 6:30 PM unless otherwise specified. If you have any questions or concerns, find me. Otherwise, I expect what is asked of you. I’ll see you later.”
Lily stands and exits The Great Hall before anyone can gather themselves enough to protest her demands. She’s gone with a swish of her hair.
James audibly sighs from across the table. He rests his head in the palms of his hands, his elbows perched on the table. James kicks his feet, the faint breeze they churn barely disturbs my robes. I can’t imagine anyone likes getting told what to do by anyone as much as James likes getting told what to do by Lily.
He snaps out of it, turning to his subjects and shooting out of his seat.
“You heard the woman—off you go.”
I decide that it’s not worth the energy fighting him and shove the remainder of my bacon into my mouth.
As I’m nearing the double doors, a tug on my sleeve stops me in my tracks.
“Hold on, Remus.”
Holy hell I love the way he says my name. He says it like he’s reading it for the first time, trying to understand its syllables, putting emphasis on it in his own special way. It ripples from his tongue, it washes over me like maple syrup, it twists through my ears and loosens my brain's control over my knees, stomach, and tongue. I can never predict when it will affect me like this. Sometimes it flies over me like a passing bird, or hits me on the back of the head like a small pebble. This time, though, it sinks into me, or rather I sink into it, and my brain completely short circuits.
Luckily, my halt is enough recognition for Sirius, and I have time to reconnect the wires in my brain before speaking.
“What are you wearing tonight?”
I face him, and become startled by how nice his eyes are when they’re looking up at me.
“What?” I mumble.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know.”
“I–erm–”
“Thought so. This is why I asked. Wear something cool, ok? A real costume.”
And with that, he’s gone, and I’m left alone, inhaling his lingering scent.
—
Alone in the dormitory, I’m finishing my last task from Lily–retreving my turntable, speakers, and any records I think would fit the occasion. How long is this party going to be, five hours? Six? Seven? In any case, I don’t have many records that match “the vibe,” so to speak. The Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack is a given, of course, and I bring Diamond Dogs and The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars to every party. Hunky Dorry seems too cheery. I pull Paranoid by Black Sabbath, mainly because the band’s name sounds J
Holloweeny. Seeing no other obvious picks from my drawer, I move on to Sirius’s much more expansive collection.
He’s utterly obsessed with muggle music. He can’t fathom how a record isn’t magic, and shakes his head in astonishment each time I explain it. His “cool cousin,” as he calls her, sends him records every few months. Riffling through his drawer, I find “eagles,” and pull it solely for Witchy Woman (I wouldn’t call Take it Easy particularly spooky). Ultimate Santana’s cover kind of freaks me out, so I add that to the list, and then Agents of Fortune, The Dark Side of the Moon, and against my better judgement, A Night at the Opera. Then, he appears, David Bowie on the cover of Aladdin Sane. The makeup is pretty—striking, even, I’ve always thought so. If there’s any evidence that David Bowie’s a Wizard, as Sirius claims, it’s this photo.
I stand up and let the bottom edge of the records align themselves on the table. That should be enough music, if we run out we can simply play the first one again. Everyone should be drunk enough not to remember, or at the very least not care.
After lugging the records, speakers, and turntable down to the common room, I find Lily and wait behind her. She’s mid-conversation with Peter.
“Pumpkin and Mulberry Juice? How are we supposed to make punch with this?”
“It’s what the Elves gave me!” Peter squeaks, crossing his arms.
Lily mumbles something about fucking wizards before continuing.
“Ok, just–just go back, and if nothing else, get some sugar, yeah?”
“Fine. But you never specified what kind of juice.”
“My mistake!”
Peter huffs and turns on his heel to return to the kitchens.
Lily turns around, sees me, and sighs.
“Tell me you got the Firewisky.”
“It’s behind the couch cushions.”
“Remus, you’re a lifesaver. If nothing else we’ll just pour that in their mouths and they’ll be happy.”
“I’m sure they will be,” Lily sighs and pulls on the edges of her robes, “Before you go, can I ask a favor?”
Lily’s eyes take a break from darting about the room and settle on me.
“Yes?”
“Would you mind doing my makeup for tonight? I want the Bowie lightning bolt.”
A coy smile plays on Lily’s lips. She puts her hands on her hips.
“You never dress up for Halloween.”
If it was anyone else talking to me, I would respond with something snarky.
“I know… but we’re running it this year, so I thought—”
“Did Sirius ask?”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
I exhale, running a hand through my hair. How does she always know?
“Will you help me or not?”
“Oh but of course,” Lily’s grinning now, mischievously, if not maniacally.
“I regret asking.”
“You don’t.”
My cheeks pull at my lips as Lily brushes past me, off to check on James.
—
“Why does he have this much control over me?” I ask Lily as she dips her brush back into her little container of muggle facepaint.
“Because you love him,” she coos. I roll my eyes as she chuckles, but I don’t correct her.
“That’s its own issue altogether."
“Why is it an issue?”
It’s been raining all day, and now it’s coming down harder than ever. The raindrops pound hard on the windowpane, the torchlight covers Lily’s face in a luminescent glow. She wears a short, black, lacy dress with big bell sleeves, and a tall witch hat. Her Mary Janes sit in the corner, and her black tights are nearly translucent around her knees as she sits criss-cross. Her muggle version of a witch is her way of protesting—what she’s protesting against she has yet to explain to me. I rest my head in her lap, her long hair falls to form a cocoon around our faces. Marlene, Dorcas, and Mary are all in the bathroom doing their hair and makeup, their bubbly conversation seeping out from under the closed door.
“For one, because he’s painfully heterosexual.”
Lily rolls her eyes
“And also because he takes advantage of my condition! I just do things he wants me to do,” I huff, crossing my arms atop my chest, “He’s like a bloody siren, I’d have to pull an Odysseus to stay away from him.”
Lily chuckles, and I’m glad I have another muggle-raised person to make references at.
“Yeah, well, if not him, then who?” Lily asks, dipping her brush into a cup of water, and then the black paint.”
“What do you mean?”
A lightning strike sharpens the shadows about the room that I can see through the gaps between Lily’s strands.
“Well, who would you rather be enamored with?”
“Why do you say things like that?”
“Just answer the question, gay boy.”
I stick my tongue out at her, and she does the same.
“Well, they’d be gay. That’s the first thing.”
“Ok, and…”
“And…” I say, trying to avert my gaze; I’m met with a wall of orange hair, “they’d have to be willing and able to hold a real intellectual conversation. Sirius is perfectly capable, but he doesn’t. He’d much rather make a joke, or scramble off topic to the next exciting thing, and maybe once in a blue moon we’ll have a conversation that feels real .”
“Have you ever thought that maybe,” Lily begins, sticking her tongue out slightly in concentration. “that conversations about ideas, or hypothetical realities, or ethics don’t feel real to him? And that he’s more comfortable discussing things he can see?”
I exhale sharply through my nose. “I know he thinks about these things though, I can just tell.”
“Maybe he wants to keep those things in his head. Maybe it says something that he shares them with you at all.”
I don’t want to really consider what she’s saying, because then she’d be right, and I’d find another reason to love Sirius, and lose a reason to be annoyed with him.
We sit in silence for a bit, and I close my eyes as the cold brush tickles my skin. I understand James. If I were straight, I’d find it hard not to fall in love with Lily.
“Ok. Done.”
She sits up and the cocoon pulls back, and she holds a mirror to my face. I blink in surprise, but after the initial shock, I realize that it's almost exactly like the album cover.
“Bloody hell Lily… It’s amazing.”
“Thanks. Ok, you have to get changed.”
“Changed?” I ask, sitting up and rotating my body to face her.
“Yep. I’ve decided what you’re wearing.”
“Oh have you?” I grab the pillow on her bed and throw it at her. She catches it.
“Yep. I do your makeup, you wear what I tell you to,” she smiles and peers her head out from behind the cushion.
“I don’t remember agreeing to this.”
“Fine print, Remus, always read the fine print.”
Before I can protest further, she jumps off the mattress to retrieve something. When she comes back, she’s holding up three items of clothing—a button-up shirt, my one and only belt, and a pair of bell-bottom jeans Sirius got me last year for Christmas. He said I’d look “cool” in them, and they’ve sat at the back of my wardrobe ever since.
“Oh Lily, there’s no way…”
“Yes way.”
“I regret every decision I’ve made that’s led me to this point.”
“You’re putting them on.”
“Oh god.”
She sighs, and puts her hands on her hips in the way a mother would if you refused to wear your jacket.
“You want to be David Bowie, yes?”
“I suppose…”
“And David Bowie’s cool.”
“Sure.”
“So therefore…”
“Are you saying that I’m not cool?”
Lily stops, letting her hands drop to her sides, “no Remus, of course I think you’re cool, it’s just that—”
I can’t stop myself from smiling, so she scoffs, and throws the clothes at me.
“You can be rather irksome sometimes, do you know that?”
“Irksome?” I begin to laugh.
“Just change!”
And with that, Lily sends me to my dorm, and I know I’ll obey whatever she tells me to do.
Notes:
So remember how I said that this would probably be the last chapter? I was very wrong. There will probably be two chapters after this. Sorry to disappoint.
Chapter 6: Feel the Love of Her Caress
Summary:
Sirius's POV: Sirius can't keep his eyes off Remus during the Halloween party, and lets his jealousy get the best of him.
Notes:
Hello! Warnings for this chapter: alcohol consumption and underage drinking. This is not a fan fiction where you know that the narrator is drinking, but their perception of the world barely changes---Sirius gets drunk and it is represented in his inner monologue. Besides that, I can't think of any other warnings. Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Lily, this is actually really good,” I say, lowering the silver goblet from my lips. “Like, seriously, what did you put in this?”
“Pumpkin Juice, Firewisky, sugar, and a bit of mulberry juice. I honestly didn’t think it would be potable.”
Students trickle into the common room—mainly those in their four year or older. The Halloween Party Policy has always been to allow first, second, and third years only if they are invited by an older student. The younger students are also prohibited from drinking—it’s usually a prefect’s responsibility to stand guard at the liquor table.
“Well it’s good. You should do this for all our parties,” I raise the cup and take another sip, letting the burn of the whisky first sting my throat, before warming my ears and chest with that fuzzy, first-few-sips-of-alcohol feeling.
The common room is completely decked out in Halloween decorations. Sculls (real or fake, I honestly can’t tell) are piled about the room, along with candlesticks burning vibrant blue flames. Talking jack-o’-lanterns perch atop tables and chairs, trying their best to scare passers by. Bats swoop from the ceiling and hang from picture-frames and windowsills—a kid tries to catch one, but it vanishes in a puff of black smoke. Massive steel chains drape the walls, each link is the size of my hand. Do I smell pumpkin bread? Or butterbear? I can’t spot either sitting around.
“I can’t believe you did all this…”
“I just made sure it happened—most of this was James's doing, I just told him when to do it.”
“Well he wouldn’t have been able to pull this off without you.”
Lily smiles at the floor before crossing her arms and returning her gaze to me.
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have helped if I thought there was a chance he could have done it alone.”
“That hasn’t stopped you before.”
Her cheeks turn red, and she mumbles something about the jack-o’-lanterns before hurrying away.
Of the participants now arriving, two thirds wear costumes. Most are ghosts (which many of Hogwarts's deceased residents find insensitive), hippies, skeletons, or other cliche choices. I’m pleased to find myself one of the only vampires present. I borrowed a set of dress robes from a seventh year, and I can’t imagine a single other situation where they’d be appropriate. The black velvet fabric weighs heavy on my shoulders—only slivers of garnet-red lining become visible as the fabric shifts. The lace on the lappels and sleeves itch my neck and wrists, and I have to fight the urge to tear them off and chuck them into a flickering blue flame. I’ve left the robe open and the first three buttons of my shirt undone to avoid imminent heat stroke. Apparently velvet isn’t the most breathable fabric. I slide my tongue over my teeth, poking myself on one of the long, sharp canines I’d charmed on myself. Maybe being a vampire wasn’t the most practical idea.
As I stand amidst the hippies and skeletons, nursing my Firewisky concoction, and thinking of interesting things to do, Remus comes down the stairs. I try to breathe, instead I choke on the sip I forgot I was holding in my mouth.
I didn’t know he could look like that.
His sleeves are rolled up to just above his elbows; a thin scar running up his left forearm almost ripples in the firelight—like a thread of seafoam drifting over the ocean. His shirt is tucked into his jeans; his waist curves in a bit before going out at his hips. And are those? Oh my god they are. Those are the jeans I got him last year. Holy shit. The air hits my teeth as I start breathing through my mouth. I’ve seen Remus in boxers—I’ve seen his legs before—it’s not like we’re medieval virgin princesses. Still, something about the way his thighs are hugged by the denim sends a chill down my spine. Slivers of his red chucks peak out from under the Jeans’ flair, and I imagine how the denim would feel pressed against my palms, how his forearms would feel under my fingertips, how the metal of his belt buckle would feel against—
“Wow. What are you, an undertaker?”
Remus has appeared in front of me.
“I—erm…what?”
“Wait, do wizards not—”
“Oh!” I laugh, but it comes out more as a wheeze, “yeah erm…funny. Yes, but no. I’m not.”
Remus squints at me, tilting his head and threading his thumbs through his beltloops. Why on earth would he attract more attention to that area? It’s bashing symbols in my face and shrieking, “yoo-hoo, look here! Look here!”
With the will of Merlin I keep my eyes from lingering.
“So…What are you then?”
His voice catches on itself like a zip tie—I love when it rasps like that. In a clumsy attempt at passing on information (similar to the way a young child holds up their fingers when you ask their age), I smile to display my teeth.
“Ah…a vampire. Is that not…I dunno, offensive? I mean, they’re real.”
The blood drains from my face. My tongue starts to move, but my vocal chords only provide noise in short, meaningless bursts.
“It’s ok Pads, I’m not the magical creatures police. I was just asking.”
My shoulders drop, and I exhale a laugh.
“Right. Anyway, what do you think of the dressrobes?”
I twirl, letting the edges of my cape fan out, extending my arms to my sides like a wood nymph in the rain. I stop, and expect Remus to say something lighthearted, or poke fun. Instead, he just stands there, his lips parted, his eyes traveling down my body, and then up, before settling somewhere near my sternum. I look down to see if I’d let my drink dribble out of my lips—nope.
“You look good, Pads.”
My head jerks up to meet his eyes again, and we stay quiet for a moment. Our chests heave, though neither of us did anything particularly strenuous. A bat flies between us, and Remus shakes his head, his curls bouncing slightly.
“I’m gonna go play something, yeah?” Remus steps back, fading into the growing crowd, “see ya later.”
And with that, he’s gone, and I’m left with a pulse thudding in my temples and a set of dress robes that are somehow hotter than before.
I’ve never actually considered pursuing my feelings for Remus. After The Prank, when I cried in James’s bed each night for two weeks, he’d asked me if I felt “more than friend feelings” towards Remus. This query sent me into a massive homosexual spiral for which James has since apologized. In any case, once James and I were both equally aware of my feelings toward Remus, Prongs insisted that we do something about it. At first I refused, and insisted that nothing would come from my little crush. After a while, though, I indulged him. I started coming to him with my schemes to get closer to Remus—setting up one-on-one study sessions, convincing him that a prank required that we work alone together, requesting he give me piano lessons. James thinks I’m coaxing my way into his heart, but honestly, I plot with James because it makes my feelings tolerable. I can laugh about them, scheme about them, and I can spend less time acknowledging how nothing will ever come of them.
Now would be a good time to speak with James—to complain to him about how hot he looks—to high-five over Remus telling me I look good. James, though, is now “flirting” with Lily, so I’m forced to face reality: Remus saying that I looked good was a friendly compliment, Remus didn’t put those jeans on for me, and Remus will never reciprocate my feelings. I down the rest of my drink, letting the sting flare up my eyes and warm my esophagus. My brain grows fuzzier, like ink smeared only slightly. I return to the drinks table and ladle myself another cup.
—
Four (or was it five) drinks in and I’m pushed up against some girl. Melany? Her sweat mixes with mine where her hands meet my neck, her waist carries my hands as it sways, her breath is hot and thick against my collarbone. Remus leans against a wall some 20 feet away—he’s speaking to a hufflepuff guy I don’t know. Probably someone smart. Remus likes talking to people who are smart. The bats have dissipated, and the candles about the floor have burned to half their height. The lights are dim, the room stews in body heat, and people I don’t know keep brushing past me, saying things I’m not quite interested in. I take a break from looking at Remus and tilt my head back. I trace over the crown moulding with my eyes, skipping over the sections the light doesn’t quite reach. I’m smiling, not really from joy, but because it feels good—like scratching an itch. I let my hands travel down from the girl’s waist, to her hips, and pull them closer to me. She lets out a pleased hum, and I soak up the warmth she radiates.
A few more drinks whirl by. I’m not sure how many. I want to find Remus now. The music goes from being all the way in my head to very far outside it, and my vision seems to skip around–the space between one subject and the next falling from my memory. I want to find Remus…I wonder what he’s doing.
My chest is warm and floaty when I see him, smiling, chuckling, though I can’t hear the sound over Bowie’s voice and the chatter of children. Everything except for him blurs a little, before snapping into focus, before blurring again. I follow Remus’s gaze, and I see him. The Hufflepuff guy, except now his arm’s reaching out to Remus, and now it’s on his shoulder, and then chest, and then running down his chest, and since when were those buttons undone?
They get closer to me, much closer, until they’re standing right in front of me, and a bit of the punch in my goblet sloshes onto my hand. The song playing sounds a bit like gibberish, and I can’t tell if I’m hearing it wrong.
“Pads? What are you-”
“Who is this guy then?” I ask, putting my free hand on his shoulder, “What’s your name?”
“Erm–Rick? Rick Thatcher–”
“Aright Rick That-cher…” my tongue’s a little too big, it’s not pointy enough to make the consonants sound right, “I’m just gonn–na have a quick chat with ol’ Remus here, s’that ok with you?”
Dick Thatcher gives Remus a little look, and I feel something bubble up inside of me. Remus doesn’t get a look from Dick, he doesn’t get to have little secret conversations with Dick, Dick can suck a Dick and go fuck right off.
“Ok...meet me back here?”
“Sure,” Remus tells him, smiling a little, before turning to me and pinching the bridge of his nose.
I want to punch Rick, I really do, but I look down at my punching hand, and there’s a goblet in it, so I take Remus by the wrist instead. The flickering lights bounce about my view a little too much, like gnats buzzing around my head, so I blink hard to shoo them away.
“Sirius—what is the matter with you?”
His voice rasps again, and the heat rising in my chest is either anger or arousal. I set my drink down on a table and stumble up the stairs.
The steps keep aligning themselves and misaligning themselves ever so slightly, and it's hard to know where I’m placing my feet. The banisters form a sort of tunnel in front of me, and the only clear thing is the stained glass window straight up the stairs. I can’t quite feel the carpet under me, the heat of Remus's wrist is taking up all the space in my mind.
“I just need to talk to you”
I round the corner and continue climbing, the cloud of chatter below us becoming slightly fainter with each step.
“Sirius…is everything ok?”
We reach the top of the stairs, and I drag him to the far corner of the hallway, just in front of our dorm. Someone charmed the speakers to reach all areas of the common room and hallways equally. The music overcomes the chatter, until the voices simply hum like the patter of a light rain on a windowsill, or a flock of seagulls squawking in the distance.
I grasp firm around Remus's wrist, and I can’t tell if it’s his pulse I’m feeling or mine. Remus is just—fuck. His cheeks are almost lavender in the moonlight, his scars glistening like the tails of comets shooting across the sky. We’ve found ourselves next to another window—the glass stained lilac and white. Little streaks of color dance and smear across Remus's face—like how morning light dapples the earth under foliage. His lips are pink, and parted, and quivering. His shirt is unbuttoned down to his sternum, and one thick scar peaks through the crack in the fabric. It catches the purple light. Hair sticks to his forehead with sweat, his eyelashes flutter, his pupils are huge, gaping holes.
I forget what I was going to talk to him about—did I have anything in mind? I just needed him away—away from that guy, the one who opened Remus’s shirt, the one who slid his hand down the place I’ve been aching to touch, the one who just sauntered into Remus’s life and thinks he can have that from him, as if I haven’t been here longer.
And then it starts playing. The thunderstorm pouring over diamonds. I just stand there, breathing, watching Remus waiting for me to say something, and I can’t find the words.
She’ll come she’ll go
Remus’s eyes flutter shut. I can faintly see his Irises move and quiver under his lids.
She’ll lay belief on you
The tendons in his wrist shift. I look down and his fingers are twitching.
Skin sweat with musky oil
Lady from another grinning soul
His eyelids lift. I inch closer.
Cologne she’ll wear
“Sirius, what is it?”
Silver and americard
“I…” I begin to speak, but I let my gaze fall to his Adam's apple…his clavicle…the way his chest rises and falls like a ship bobbing on the ocean.
What am I supposed to say? I just needed you, Remus. I just needed you and there you were, with some guy, and I know you’re straight but he was just touching you and I hated the thought that I could have been doing that all along. That it was so casual for you, that you’ve been letting everyone else do it, that I’m the only guy in this damn school you don’t trust enough to do that…the only person you’re closed off too. I just needed to have you, away from everyone else, to steal a moment with you no one but us knows exists, to keep you for myself.
She’ll drive a Beetle Car
And beat you down at Cool Canasta
The world around us sinks underwater. We're in a bubble of our own. Remus’s heat draws me closer, until the comets on his face are washed away by my shadow.
And when the clothes are strewn
Don’t be afraid of the room
Hot breath sizzles through the gap between his lips; it sends a ripple through my exhale. I feel his body quiver slightly through my hold on him.
“Sirius…” my name escapes him in a whisper, “what are you…”
Touch the fullness of her breast
I press my hand against his chest, where the guy had put his. Remus’s skin is sticky with sweat, hot under my palm. I drag my hand up to his shoulder, and cup the socket there. Remus gasps, I squeeze harder.
Feel the love of her caress
Our noses slip past each other and I teeter on the edge of something. A cliff…the edge of the stairs…
She will be your living end
I push my lips over his, I swallow the breath escaping him, I push him into the wall. A millisecond passes, in which I realize what I’m doing. Before I can retreat, Remus’s tongue slips past my teeth, his hand presses into the small of my back, and he makes the most delicious sound, a barely-vibration that sinks into me and sends ripples down my throat, into my stomach, and further down…
I can’t bring myself to pull away.
The skin of our chests brushes against each other, and suddenly I’m pushing mine into his, because I had no idea how good this could feel. It’s filling a cup I didn’t know was empty, or even existed—it’s pouring heat into my body, I never realized how cold I’ve been. It’s scratching a massive bug bite, it’s chugging water after a game, it’s letting out a rush of tears after you’ve been holding them in. Our tongues meet, and It’s his life force—something wet, and private, and raw. A noise transfers from me to him, and I don’t have the free neurons to become embarrassed. He’s hot, and beating, and living, and this is what it’s supposed to feel like. This is what I’ve been meant to be feeling all along, not just the semi-pleasant sensation of being near a warm body, but needing this body, the one in front of me, to be as close to me as possible.
Remus’s tongue finds my canine tooth. Something metallic finds my tongue.
“Fuck,” remus pulls away, and I miss him immediately.
Blood rims the crack between his lips. He raises a hand to cover his mouth.
“Shit,” I realize what happened, “fuck, erm…”
I stumble backwards, nearly tripping on my way through the door. What did I just do?
Notes:
Hello! I hope you liked this chapter, and I hopefully the next chapter will be the last. Leave Kudos if you liked it and/or want to.
CloudyAri_99 on Chapter 1 Sun 03 Dec 2023 03:02AM UTC
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a_large_dog_with_no_spacial_awareness on Chapter 1 Mon 22 Jan 2024 01:38AM UTC
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a_large_dog_with_no_spacial_awareness on Chapter 1 Sun 31 Mar 2024 06:20AM UTC
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CloudyAri_99 on Chapter 2 Mon 22 Jan 2024 08:02PM UTC
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CloudyAri_99 on Chapter 3 Mon 08 Apr 2024 12:57AM UTC
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a_large_dog_with_no_spacial_awareness on Chapter 3 Fri 11 Jul 2025 02:12PM UTC
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